Before Nightfall
by kenzier
Summary: A re-write of the ending of Season 5. AU after Intervention. What if Buffy hadn't waited for Glory to come after the Scoobies? What if she decided to strike first? B/S. Rating may change.
1. Prologue: Acts of Man

**Before Nightfall**

**by kenzier**

**Prologue: Acts of Man**

_And when the acts of man  
Cause the ground to break open  
Oh, let me inside, let me inside, not to wait_

– Midlake

* * *

The moon was nowhere to be found. The blackness of the night was blacker than almost any she'd ever seen. Despite the stillness of the darkness around her, she knew now that they had to move. After today, she would stop waiting.

It was this thought that woke her after only a few hours of sleep. It wasn't quite panic, but it was a call to action moving inside her, refusing to keep quiet.

Today, Glory had made good on her promise. Well, somewhat anyway. "Next time we meet, something you love dies bloody."

She didn't love Spike, nor had he died, but he loved her and he could have died, if not by Glory's hands then by her own. This was enough to force Buffy to acknowledge that Glory had meant what she said. Not that she had ever doubted it, but damn if Glory hadn't taken her time. So much had happened since then.

Now she had no options, couldn't wait until it played out on its own. Next time, it would be someone she _did_ love, and eventually it would be Dawn.

Dawn. Dawn. Dawn. Buffy was certain today was the day. She could see the picture in her mind of Dawn being ripped from her arms, taken somewhere she could not follow, disappeared from her life forever. Dawn had been given to her to protect. Despite the familial ties that the monks had created, truly Dawn was more her child than her sister, and now with her mother's death, this feeling had grown stronger than ever.

From the moment she walked into his crypt, it had taken all of her concentration and patience to keep from beating the remaining unlife out of Spike and demanding that he confess his crime, tell her about how he'd ratted them out to save his own skin. To stand there wasting precious seconds, listening to him babble, waiting for the awful truth to spill out, it made the _real_ truth that much more unnerving. Moments before, she'd been standing outside of his door, trying to convince herself that even if he did tell Glory about Dawn, it would be wrong to kill him.

When she left him, the sun was shining brightly, and she realized it was hanging at just the same angle it would be when school let out at 3 o'clock, a cast so familiar to her in years past, something she'd always associated with freedom. She suddenly felt extremely nostalgic and peaceful. It was a beautiful spring day, and maybe there was still some promise to this life after all.

Unfortunately, her relief only lasted a few short hours. She was the Slayer—to be at ease too long felt like she was doing something wrong.

She hadn't known how to tell the others the truth about Spike—Dawn especially. They deserved to know, but at the same time, some part of her felt that only she could truly understand his actions, that only she would know what slot to drop this in. Dawn would feel vindicated, Willow overly empathetic or even guilty. Xander would find a way to make it his own, to find the cynicism or irony in it. Only Giles could possibly see it for what it really was.

When she returned to the Magic Box, she told them plainly and quickly then promptly collected Dawn and left, not waiting to hear their reactions.

For her, Buffy Summers, Slayer of the Vampires, she had decided to accept it only for what it appeared to be and study it no further. She refused to allow it to become a paradigm shift of any kind. Her moral compass was woven into the fabric of her being and a lovesick bloodsucker with a penchant for romantic gestures would not be the thing to unravel it. After all, he was still a murderer.

Granted, it was that internal pull toward rightness which finally forced her to acknowledge the realness of his feelings. She knew she couldn't ignore them just because they were inconvenient and contradicted her forthright stance regarding the pure and uncomplicated evil of vampires.

She wondered what her mother would say. Her mother had liked Spike. But her mother didn't have to make the hard choices she had to make. She had been free to explore flights of fancy, including playing mother hen to a soulless fiend—one who's primary goal was to steal the life of her first born child and tap dance on her grave. It seemed unfair that Joyce had always had a soft spot for Spike while holding onto a measure of distrust and fear of Angel. Maybe it was because Spike could only kill Buffy while Angel could truly hurt her.

Living in her mother's house without her mother was an awful curse. Sitting now as she was, on the white wicker loveseat that her mother had so considerately purchased for their front porch (something that only a mom would know to do), blanket covering her lap, it was impossible not to think of the mornings that they would migrate their plates and bowls and mugs outside to enjoy breakfast in the dry California heat.

She felt her eyes ache a little as tears attempted to force themselves out. Suddenly, she sensed the vibration of her teenage sister tromping downstairs. She knew it was Dawn because of her propensity to clomp like a Clydesdale when climbing or descending their old, wooden staircase (which was not very forgiving of such inconsiderate plodding).

Buffy sat quietly and waited to see how long it would take Dawn to find her. She thought of playing hide-and-seek with Dawn when they were children, when they had just been two ordinary girls—not a Slayer and a Key.

She had finally gotten over the anxiety of remembering that someone had violated her mind to implant such idyllic memories. For awhile, the disgust and vulnerability would shake her every time she thought of the past that had been created for her. She feared that she would never be able to forget that the memories were counterfeit, that they were not what she had felt or thought, but rather they were dreamed up by a monk who probably spent a great deal of time imagining what a life beyond his robes would be like. But memory and nostalgia are strong. She could remember feeling the feelings, and for Buffy, this was a huge deal. She trusted her gut far more than her intellect.

She heard the heavy creak of the front door, and saw Dawn peer outside, a bewildered look etched on her face as she searched for her. Buffy felt guilty then, admonishing herself for not recognizing how such a thing might affect Dawn more deeply than it normally would.

"Dawn."

Dawn started and gasped and then immediately appeared both relieved and annoyed in a way only a teenage girl could.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."

"Oh, sure. Says the stealthy Slayer sitting in the dark wearing all black."

"That was quite an accomplishment in alliteration."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. It's one of those things you start noticing only after taking a college lit course. Like how everything is either an allusion to death or Hell or God."

"Sound like a guidebook to Sunnydale."

"Perhaps it should be mandatory coursework then."

Dawn stepped out on the mat.

"You think you'll go back to school soon?"

Buffy shook her head assuredly but with apparent regret.

"I wish I didn't have to go back either."

"I think that's pretty much status quo."

"I guess. But it just doesn't seem right. I'm sitting there in class and my teacher is all talking about the _Bhagavad Gita_ and all I can think is how no one there has any idea about Glory or what might happen."

"You should let me worry about that. Whatever that is, it sounds very old and important."

"It's an ancient Indian philosophical text about a warrior that has lost his will to fight. I think they feel the need to arm us in any way they can."

Buffy laughed. Dawn crossed the porch to sit next to her. She looked thoughtfully out at the street, but it was clear something else was on her mind.

"Buffy, what's going to happen to Spike?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, do you think Glory will come after him again?"

"I doubt it. I think it would be a waste of her time."

Dawn smiled a bit to herself then.

Buffy rolled her eyes. "What?"

"Nothing."

"I feel some kind of 'I-told-you-so' coming on here."

"I just think it's pretty cool that I was right."

"You weren't right. You were barely ballpark. Spike is still evil. And now he's not just evil, he's also incorrigible."

"And loyal and romantic."

"Look, sister, I'm not going to let you live your little crush vicariously through me."

"Please. I'm so over that."

"Then why are you still on about Spike?"

"Because he's my friend."

And suddenly, Buffy was strangely touched, She couldn't argue with that logic. Spike was different than Willow and Xander and Giles—from what she could glean, Dawn wasn't just Buffy's kid sister to him. Maybe it was because they were both outsiders in a way. Dawn lived in the shadow of Buffy's enormous life and her unusual origin only seemed to exacerbate her alienation. Spike in his best moments was only a fringe member of the group—tolerated by necessity, _vampira non grata_.

"I know. Tell you what: Willow and I will take him some blood tomorrow. Will that make you happy?"

"You don't want me to see him, huh?"

"It's…it's a bit hard to see anyone like that, no matter who they are. And the better you know them, the harder it is."

"I understand."

Buffy didn't even want to approach the heart of the matter—that the moment Dawn saw the damage that had been done to Spike, there could only be two possible reactions: that this was her fault and that this is what Glory would do to her if she ever figured out that she was the Key.

Dawn leaned into Buffy then, her head falling underneath Buffy's chin. She touched Dawn's thick, silky hair and they watched together as the silver moon glided out from its hiding place and illuminated the faces of the houses along Revello Drive.

* * *

There was nothing like getting beat to a bloody pulp to make you realize just how alone you really were. No one to take care of you, nurse your wounds, help you lift your head.

Spike had spent a good chunk of his evening recalling just how many people he'd pissed off in his long life. That was after the profound and miserable realization that there was probably not a single person on the planet that actually liked him right now. If he died at this very moment (which would have been a welcome blessing), he'd be just a name in some dusty old books that read like fiction to ninety-nine point nine percent of the world, barely missed by anyone at all.

What could he say? He wasn't drawn in broad strokes. He'd never been a hundred percent good or a hundred percent evil. It was a lot harder to make friends that-a-way, though it had never been this severe. He was truly riding the fence between two worlds—he desired the freedom to hunt and kill at will, desired the peace it would bring him—feeling the life drain out of a body in his arms, yet found himself desperately and passionately in love with the figurehead of goodness, the leader of the white hats who had made it her mission to put an end to so much of what he treasured. In her world, he could only be two things: dust or neutered. He would never be a person and he would never be free.

Oddly, he found this to be less of a dilemma than he'd originally envisioned. Despite the twists and turns his path had taken over the years, with all of the distractions of traversing the globe and all of the diverting temptations—the easy prey of the Russian famine, learning sleight-of-hand tricks from gypsies around a campfire, the Boxer rebellion, WWII, Haight-Ashbury and everything in between, he realized he was always supposed to end up right here. He just wished he hadn't had to be impaled on the finger of a god to be certain of it.

Love. It had always really been about that. And now, after all this time, he'd found her. He'd never been more sure of anything. Buffy Summers, golden-skinned, pink-cheeked California girl with a smart mouth and an endearing sprinkling of daffiness. She was just a girl, but in this town she was both the feared and respected queen of the underworld. She was…perfect. Charmingly, bewitchingly perfect. He needed her to be his. Nothing else mattered. Nothing ever had. She was only a fraction of his age, but her soul was ancient. He thought he must have been following it across time, across the whole world, and that was why Slayers had factored so largely into his life. Or maybe he was just waxing poetic as he had a tendency to do.

Regardless, he knew that there was no possibility that he would ever love anything more than he loved her. And she hated him.

Not that this was new. Not that it would stop him. After today, he could only hope that she hated him a little less than she did before, that this thing that he had done would grow inside her like a planted seed. That with enough time her gratitude might develop into affection.

The whole thing had already provided him with fodder for his daydreams. He was excited at just the prospect of being able to fantasize about how things might play out. There was a lot to work with now. He was already concocting elaborate fantasies about how working together to beat Glory would bring them closer and in a moment of danger and despair, her defenses would break down and she would let him in. He dreamed about being the one Buffy could run to, the one she could secretly trust more than she would ever say aloud. Alone here in the dark, he burned for her. He missed her touch without ever having felt it, was cursed with the sickening pain of being denied her love and affection although he'd never known it.

The fantasy wouldn't be enough, but he'd make it last as long as he could—it was the only thing that kept him going sometimes.

He'd been too out of it to light any torches or candles. He gingerly rolled onto his side and curled up, trying not to focus on the pain, whispering to himself that he was okay.

He had half a mind to be horribly depressed. As such, one eye produced a single tear of unabashed self-pity as the moon finally condescended to shed some light on him.


	2. Chapter 01: Good Intentions

**Before Nightfall**

**by kenzier**

**Chapter 1: Good Intentions**

_There's little relief  
Give us reprieve  
Imagining the world outside  
I'm positive that I'm not blind _

– Toad the Wet Sprocket

* * *

Buffy stared into her closet. She had never realized exactly how much money her mother had spent on her wardrobe.

Being the Slayer meant that she had to have a functional, utilitarian wardrobe that allowed her to move freely in battle and could withstand considerable abuse. She had leather jackets and pants in virtually every color and style, plenty of t-shirts and tank tops for warm weather slaying, and, of course, an array of sweat suits for training. But being _Buffy Summers _meant that she had to have a trendy wardrobe filled with tons of stylish designer jeans, expensive and duly uncomfortable footwear, and frilly blouses complete with lace and beads and sequins that really had no business being in the closet of someone who was so frequently lying in dirt or covered in slime.

Unfortunately, there seemed to be a true lack of middle ground between these two poles. Even her comfiest sweaters had some sort of fashionable styling that made them hang off her shoulders or pile around her neck or something else equally feminine.

To Buffy, a girl's wardrobe was like a mood ring. It told you was she was feeling or thinking in the very moment she decided to put it on. Certainly this explained why she could not find a single thing to wear. Buffy didn't have any outfits for what she was feeling right now. She was equal parts transcendentally hopeful, unfathomably terrified, and horribly miserable.

She'd spent all night rolling this Glory thing over in her head, and she had some ideas for how to proceed. Unfortunately, she realized almost immediately that she couldn't do it alone—not with things escalating so quickly. She had to assume that Glory's strike on them meant that time was running short for her. That meant that they too had to act quickly. But what was going to happen next is probably what had kept her paralyzed for this long.

Today, she would be asking her friends to do things that she knew would get some of them hurt.

The guilt of it was making her sick.

Of course, the gang had always been willing to jump into the fray to help her save the world, but this was different. This was far more grim. She'd never before felt that their odds of losing outweighed their odds of winning. At worst, it had always been at least a 50/50 shot. This thing with Glory didn't feel anywhere near that.

Moreover, things were more complicated now. Both Anya and Tara appeared to be good mates for Xander and Willow, and the couples had begun to build lives together. Buffy, despite her melancholy attitude toward the subject, was blessedly unattached—the only person she had to be responsible for now was Dawn. They weren't quite kids anymore, and, truly, they had no business being so reckless with their own lives.

What complicated the situation even further was that they had no earthly idea what Glory's plans were. They could make a reasonable assumption that it wasn't something small—the appearance of the Knights of Byzantium was evidence enough of that. But at this point, her asking for help felt more like a personal favor. Right now, it wasn't about saving the world; it was about protecting Dawn.

She was going to give it to them straight. Tell them plainly what their chances were. Still, she knew they would join in regardless of her warnings, and she knew she wouldn't refuse their help no matter how wrong it felt to take it.

She thought maybe she should just take Dawn and run away. Get on a plane and disappear until this whole thing blew over. The only trouble was she had no idea when that might be. Moreover, it would probably only encourage Glory to come after her friends, regardless of what she thought they might know, just as a way to bring her galloping back to save them.

Buffy had considered sending Dawn away with Giles, but certainly that would raise suspicion about one of them being the Key, and Giles did not have the means to protect Dawn all by himself. She would be remiss to think that Glory's followers only lived in Sunnydale. Buffy imagined some powerful old-world demons hiding out in the dark corners of the globe being summoned out of their silence to do Glory's bidding. If she was less sane, she supposed she could send Dawn away with Spike instead. In her mind, it wasn't _entirely_ out of the question which, she realized, was an indicator of just how desperate she really was.

It was still very early in the morning. Sleep had never come. She'd lain in bed watching the sky turn from velvety black to storm gray, working through it all in her head. Now, standing in her underwear on this cold overcast morning, holding that plum cashmere sweater her mother always loved, she wanted to collapse on the floor, break into pieces, and then sob until she felt whole again. Instead, she put on her shoulder-baring sweater, donned a sensible pair of jeans and boots, quietly shut the door to her room, and headed downstairs to make breakfast.

* * *

Buffy phoned Willow as early as she thought was reasonable and asked if she and Tara could drop by after class. She explained to Willow that she planned on calling a Scooby meeting later that day, but that she had promised Dawn that they would take some blood to Spike first. Willow was eager to oblige. Overly empathetic, as Buffy had predicted.

In the meantime, she prepared the only breakfast she knew how to make—instant oatmeal—and put it in the microwave for Dawn. As the microwave hummed behind her, she set about going through the mail. Guiltily, she reviewed the bill for her spring semester at UC Sunnydale, realizing that one day in the very near future, she'd have Dawn's college to think about.

Flipping through the growing stack of correspondence that was all addressed to her mother, she realized she had no idea what to do with any of it. Did her mother mail a check to pay for the utilities or did she phone in the payment? Should she renew their premium cable channels for another year or was it time to cut back? She tossed the stack of envelopes, half of them yet to be opened, in the junk drawer Mom had kept in the hutch. Dawn was right—regular life didn't seem to make sense right now.

Buffy opened the kitchen door and went out onto the back porch. She stared up into the storm clouds that were rolling in.

It was getting hard to imagine the future. She knew that it was out there somewhere, but she couldn't see it, couldn't feel it anymore. Her college degree. A life outside Sunnydale. Angel. Riley. All the things she'd once seen down the path, they were nowhere. All she knew now was the fight. She could only hope that once this thing was done, something would emerge, something worth looking forward to other than plain survival.

"Isn't that really bad for your eyes?"

Her reverie was broken.

"Dawn."

"It's like you keep expecting it to be someone else. We're the only ones here now."

"You know, I just realized how convenient that is. Now, whenever something of mine is missing I know exactly who to blame."

"Of course that would be the bright side for you."

Buffy stepped back into the dim kitchen.

"I made you oatmeal, "Buffy said, pointing to the microwave.

"You cooked breakfast?" Dawn approached the microwave, removing the bowl Buffy had placed there for her.

"I do know how to do more than just kill things."

Dawn looked into the bowl. "I wouldn't be so sure. This oatmeal looks like it was slaughtered."

Buffy, dubious, rounded the island to see for herself. The contents were hard and burnt around the edges.

"Shit."

"It was still nice of you to do."

The girls looked at each other for a moment and started to laugh.

"Jesus. I can't believe I messed that up. I guess that's what happens when you ditch Home Ec every day."

"Well, maybe when you _do_ go back to college, you can take a culinary arts class. Maybe use that as some sort of degree requirement."

"Culinary arts seems a little advanced when you can't pass Nuking 101."

Buffy emptied the bowl into the garbage as Dawn took out the milk and cereal. She rinsed the bowl and handed it back to Dawn.

"Thanks."

Buffy leaned back against the counter. "Willow and Tara will be here around 1 o'clock. Tara will stay here with you while Willow and I check on Spike. After that, we're all going to the Magic Box. Scooby meeting."

"What for?"

"A lot of things. Everybody needs to change their routine. We've gotta throw off Glory's little god groupies."

"I wish we didn't have to talk about Glory all the time. It's like every day is Glory, Glory, Glory."

"I know. Me too." Buffy pondered a moment. "I wonder if it would be a big ego boost if she knew.

"I know it would be for me."

"Yeah, but when that many people worship you, it has to stop mattering so much eventually."

"Or maybe it's like being a movie star. Where you just start to hate it."

"This is sort of a weird conversation," Buffy said, stepping outside of herself.

"Yeah. How did we get here?"

"I don't remember."

"Oh, Scooby meeting."

"That's right. I need to call Giles and Xander."

Buffy crossed to the hutch as Dawn resumed her breakfast. Next to the phone was a bright pink slip of paper. Curiously, Buffy unfolded it. It was Ben's number. She'd forgotten all about it. It had seemed like ages since he'd given it to her. She'd felt badly blowing off their date. The thought of just having a simple conversation over coffee had sounded perfect. She remembered how she had been reeling after Spike had professed his love for her, how she desperately just wanted someone normal that she could talk to about stupid things like movies and the weather. Someone who just wanted to get to know Buffy. But it hadn't felt right. How could she ever expect someone to accept her fully when she didn't accept herself? Riley leaving had shaken her a little. She hadn't known how to give in to him completely like she had Angel. It made her embarrassed about being the Slayer again. The idea of having to introduce a normal guy to that part of her…it felt like an impossible, trying ordeal. But she knew now that it shouldn't be that way. She shouldn't have to hide from herself.

She re-folded the paper and put it in the drawer with the unopened mail. Maybe she could call him again after she had time to think about the cable bill.

* * *

Willow and Tara arrived twenty minutes after 1 o'clock with lattes and pig's blood.

The house was suddenly alive with girlish chatter as Tara and Dawn shared an excited exchange about the new pumpkin flavored syrup at the Espresso Pump while Willow recounted their trip to the butcher shop. She had accidentally bumped into a woman wearing a bright blue burka only to discover a scaly tail poking out from underneath.

"She almost dropped her bag and I swear her eyes when from green to bright orange in three seconds!"

"I was afraid we were going to get liquefied."

Buffy was surprised how high spirited the two witches were considering yesterday's events. She began to feel fluttering in her stomach again, knowing how somber today's Scooby meeting was certain to be.

"We'd better get going. Everyone's going to be at the Magic Box by three."

Tara smiled reassuringly. "I'll make sure Dawn gets there safely."

Had it been anyone but Tara, Dawn surely would have been irritated by such a statement, but Tara's overt goodness and warmth made her impossible to reproach.

"Thanks," Buffy said, slipping on her jacket and picking up the clandestine brown bag from the coffee table.

"Will you say 'hello' to Spike for me?" Dawn asked childishly.

Buffy tilted her head in mild annoyance, casting Dawn a '_really?_' expression. "Sure," she said tersely.

She and Willow exited the Summers home, and Buffy immediately felt the oppressiveness of the gloomy, overcast sky settle on her heavy heart. The air was crisp with cold.

Once they were safely out of earshot, Buffy couldn't help but rant a little.

"I don't know why she has to do that."

"What?"

"I don't know. I mean, I know she likes him, but does she have to pretend saying 'hello' to Spike is the same as saying 'hello' to everyone else?"

"Well, Buffy, he did just almost die to save her life. I think it's okay for her to show some gratitude."

Buffy listened to the scrape of her own boots on the asphalt. She could smell the rain coming and thought idly that it felt more like autumn than spring. Last September, everything had seemed so much simpler.

"You're right. I don't know why I'm so on edge about it."

"Well, on the other hand, he did just commission a clearly unbalanced uber-nerd to make a porn-bot of you so he could…you know, do things with it."

"Exactly."

"But still, I don't think it's wrong of her. It will probably just take some getting used to."

"What?"

"Having Spike be someone that you can't just ignore."

"Who says I can't ignore him?" Buffy asked, attempting peevishness but failing.

Willow chuckled. "You. Look at what we're doing right now."

"A woman with a point."

"That's me. I'm all pointy."

They passed by a shrub fence and Buffy noticed a large, glossy raven perched at the highest point watching them carefully, trying to decide whether to stay or go.

"It's just, I don't want her to get attached. This cease fire thing won't last forever. That chip will stop working at some point, and then what? I'm just supposed to let him live because Dawn would be sad if he died? He won't stop feeding. He couldn't."

"Are you sure? I mean, maybe he could try not to."

"Okay, maybe he could try. But we'd never be one-hundred percent sure. There's no way for us to ever trust him. It's not in him. He's not like us."

Willow hooked her arm through Buffy's as they headed onward toward the cemetery.

She mused thoughtfully. "It's a conundrum."

"Yes, it is."

"Life is full of 'em."

"Yes, it is."

"Isn't being a grown-up fun?"

"No, it's not."

Willow smiled that bright Willow smile and Buffy's stomach felt a little less fluttery.

"What do you think?"

"I think…I don't know. I think things will probably go the way they should."

Willow could be hopelessly philosophical sometimes, never wanting to make a proper judgment, always trying to see it from both sides. It was as much an asset as it was a burden.

"I'm not sure it's wise to be so zen about it."

"What other choice do you have?"

"I have _no_ _idea_," Buffy said, eyes opening wide, animatedly exasperated. She paused for a moment. "I knew this would happen."

"What?"

"That you would feel this way."

Willow shrugged. "I guess I've just never thought of Spike as being especially evil. Mostly just incidentally evil."

Buffy thought again of her visit to his crypt yesterday. She'd kissed him. It was partly done on impulse, but it had meaning and intent. She didn't regret doing it. He had deserved it.

"You know what?," she said, amending herself, "none of this is really important right now. I don't know why it got under my skin today. I was totally at peace with this last night."

"Well, I think what we're doing is the decent thing to do. We're being upstanding citizens. Performing a service to the community, nothing more."

"Oh, yes," Buffy said dryly. "Playing candy-stripers for a vampire that has terrorized our city for years in the name of bloodlust and fun. We're pillars of society."

"Cynicism like that will get you nowhere, missy," Willow faux-chastised as they approached the door of Spike's crypt.

Buffy moved to open the door.

"Buffy?" Willow asked hesitantly.

"What?" Buffy replied, confused.

"Did you want me to come in?" she asked awkwardly.

Buffy was perplexed by her reticence until she realized that Willow had never actually been inside Spike's crypt. The contrast was a little jarring when she considered it against her own experience. Spike's crypt was as familiar to her as Xander's apartment.

"No, it's probably better if you wait here," Buffy said, realizing that was the truth. Not only would it have been a violation of the vampire's privacy when he likely wanted it the most, but Buffy was very cognizant of what kind of effect Spike's appearance would have on the others. She, Giles, and Xander could handle it—but the fewer people that witnessed the horrifying results of being in Glory's way the better. "I won't be long."

Buffy pushed open the door, inhaling as she stepped inside. The air was dry and warm and smelled of some bittersweet spice. The vines sprawling across the interior walls and the leaves that cascaded across the floor when you opened the door gave the crypt a permanently autumnal quality.

She expected to see Spike lying prone on the tomb where she'd left him, but he was gone.

She stepped down onto the flat, hard floor, closing the door behind her. Her boots made a very pleasing sound, rubber sole slapping against bare concrete, and it echoed through the crypt as she stepped tentatively forward. She moved toward the tomb where Spike had been last seen, and placed the brown sack of blood atop it.

"Slayer."

Buffy jumped and hated herself for it.

She turned to face him. He was slouched in that mossy green armchair, the only real piece of furniture in the entire crypt, his feet planted heavily in front of him, knees bent at a ninety degree angle.

"Hello, Spike," she said firmly.

He chuckled, but it came out sounding more like a gurgle than a laugh. "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."

Buffy exhaled deeply, but didn't respond. Instead she lifted the bag and shook it, gesturing. "Dawn says 'hi'."

"Ah," he said, understanding.

Buffy lowered the bag. "It has straws inside. Bendy ones."

"Thanks," he whispered hoarsely. "You can just leave it there."

"How's the eye?" She leaned back against the tomb, crossing her arms.

"Oh, you mean the one I can't see a fuckin' thing out of? It's great."

She smiled wryly. She wanted to ask him if it had been worth it—if he regretted sticking his neck out so far for her and Dawn—but somehow she knew she couldn't ask it properly. She imagined it sounding either careless or rude.

"There should be enough blood in there to last a few days. I'll be back later this week."

As much as he enjoyed the notion that he could expect regular visits from her (as opposed to spending all day hoping she might drop in), Spike was still a proud creature. "No need. I'm fine on my own. I've been pummeled my fair share. Not as though I can die from it."

She sighed. "It's more than that."

There was that signature head tilt. "Noodling something out up there, luv?"

"Yeah. Haven't been able to do much else all night."

She leaned away from the tomb and began pacing the floor a bit. Spike followed her with his eyes.

She started slowly. "I need you to get better. We have to fight back," she said sternly. "We don't have a chance if we don't start trying to find a way to beat Glory now. I'm angry at myself for waiting this long."

Spike watched as she struggled to both convey and mask her frustration.

"There's just been too much else happening. But all of that has to stop now. Something has to be done. None of us are safe anymore so there's no point in playing it safe."

She'd practiced that speech in her head all morning. She figured Spike was a good candidate to try it out on since he was the most likely to say what he really thought.

She realized they were silently staring at each other from across the room.

"_You can't tell me that there isn't anything there between you and me. I know you feel something."_

She turned away, casting her eyes to the ground. "It's now or never."

Spike coughed. "Well, I can't imagine I'll do a whole lot of good in the fight. Bitch worked me over in pretty short order. But you know I'll do what I can. Wouldn't make much sense to have gotten tortured to have Dawn die now." His words weren't sensitive, he knew, and he was pleased in a sick way, being able to remind her of the deed he'd done for her, like a child fishing for a compliment from a parent. Still, he meant it, even if part of the reason was merely practical.

Buffy turned to look at Spike once more. He was silent and still, lying back in his chair. Buffy had been scared of Spike when they met. In fact, she'd been frightened of him right up to the moment their lips touched yesterday afternoon. Spike was a special foe; he fought with both his mind and his fists. He had the ability to inflict as much psychological damage to her as physical. Sure, Angelus's torture had made a far deeper and longer lasting impression, but Buffy reasoned that had as much to do with their prior relationship as it did with his heinous acts. Spike on the other hand had never been more to her than an enemy, but somehow, he knew exactly what to say to inspire doubt and insecurity. She'd almost forgotten how astute his observations of her were until she'd shown a measure of weakness and come to him to hear about the Slayers he'd killed. He'd really let her have it then, with such venom and hate. And she'd been paralyzed. She couldn't shake it off, couldn't return his poison. She'd felt so small and weak, and he suddenly seemed so powerful and strong. As much as she hated to admit it, for the first time ever, she had recognized him as a sexual creature in that moment. She'd never felt that way about him before, but as he towered over her menacingly, breaking her in emotionally, face inches from hers, her id stepped up and filled in the blanks. It wasn't a thought—it was pure base instinct, and it wasn't until days afterward that she realized exactly what it was she'd experienced. She was genuinely disgusted with herself, but she couldn't quite get the feeling to stick the way it should. It was the mind fighting the body. Especially in a Slayer, some things just were and there was no rationale that could alter them.

He could never know any of these things with any measure of certainty. In fact, it was her goal to make it seem as though she never thought about him at all.

"Slayer?"

She supposed she could do a better job.

"I'll come back in a few days. Try to get better."

She briskly headed toward the door. Spike's arm suddenly extended out in front of her, asking her to halt.

"Don't let it psyche you out. Running yourself through the wringer will only make things worse."

Buffy's irritation was rising. Sometimes he was like the world's most annoying mind-reader.

"Worry about yourself, Spike."

_I'll be fine._


End file.
